


No Rest for the Wicked

by adventuresofmeghatron



Series: Reclamations [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Overtures of Future Polyamory, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Poly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:21:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25659646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adventuresofmeghatron/pseuds/adventuresofmeghatron
Summary: Deacon gets it, he thinks. MacCready and Natasha are in love with each other. A kind of crazy, end-of-the-world, burn down bridges sort of in love with each other. And they’d be fine enough on their own without him. Right?“So, let me get this straight,” Deacon asks him. “You’re begging me to sleep with your girlfriend?”
Relationships: Deacon/Robert Joseph MacCready/Female Sole Survivor, Robert Joseph MacCready/Female Sole Survivor, Robert Joseph MacCready/Sole Survivor
Series: Reclamations [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1944889
Comments: 16
Kudos: 56





	No Rest for the Wicked

**Author's Note:**

> After the fall of the Institute, Deacon decides to check up on his old friends, Natasha and MacCready. 
> 
> There are a couple lines in Russian. If you understand them, great! You can tell me how well my translator worked. But don't worry if you don't!
> 
> This story contains mild descriptions of PTSD symptoms and off-screen violence.

_You don’t have to go inside_. Deacon kicks up a tuft of grass with the toe of his boot. A second later, his eyes trail back to the muted glow from the window of the house on the hill. Here and there, the light snuffs out for a moment at a time. Maybe they’re moving around, making dinner. Or maybe it’s a candle casting off romantic ambiance. He should go. Wouldn’t want to intrude.

He could call it recon. Just chalk it up to...well, checking on some old friends. Couldn’t hurt, after the big boom nearly six months ago. Not that he hasn’t looked after them already, but never quite so directly. After the ashes settled, Deacon owed MacCready and Natasha at least a passing interest in making sure no Institute remnants came creeping in the night to finish them off.

The sun’s drifting down over Hilltop, home to the newest flagpole flying the Minutemen banner. The deep blue standard flutters overhead in the cool breeze ruffling the slope. The name’s apt. Hell of a hike, but a hell of a view. Deacon’s gaze sweeps to the striking skyline, which blazes with the dying day.

The settlement itself is piecemeal and paltry. Most folk are set up in tents for the night, beside wooden frames of homes almost, but not quite built. He’d asked, before she left: why _here?_ Why break ground on something new with the swanky set up they already had in Sanctuary Hills? Something about wildflowers in spring. It’s nearly autumn now. There’s a bite to the breeze, and Deacon feels the ache of the climb pulse in the soles of his feet.

They would never need to know he came all this way and chickened out. He’s dressed as any old settler, clad in plaid and torn up khakis. He fell into step with a caravan on the way here. He could even leave his little housewarming present tucked among the goods of the traders. Deacon grips the neck of the bottle and peers down at the liquid sloshing inside. It’s not quite Cabernet, might not even be _good_ by pre-war standards. Wine was never his poison of choice. But it’s...red. That has to count for something.

He could turn round right now, and they’d be none the wiser. Report back to Des. Tell her _no, Whisper’s still not coming back._ And neither is her smart-talking mercenary. He didn’t have to see them to know that answer. By now, Des is smart enough to stop asking. She wasn’t the one who sent him here, anyway. She hardly sends him anywhere, anymore.

Deacon shivers. It’s a touch chilly. If he tries to bed down and blend in, he runs the risk of being found out. It if were anywhere else, he might stand a chance, but it’s still a newborn settlement and the faces here are too few. Deacon sighs, and saunters through the cool grass.

Just one night. That’s all.

\---

Deacon fidgets on the porch. He moves the wine bottle to one hand, and then the other. Sure, he knocked, but the door isn’t _open_ yet. No one’s seen him, really. He could still--

Warm light spills over him. Standing in the doorway is Natasha Sokolova: sole survivor of Vault 111, retired Railroad agent, and, to those who crossed her, nothing short of a violent, vengeful hurricane. It was one of Deacon's kinder twists of fate that they had ended up on the _same_ side in the war for the Commonwealth.

Tonight, she’s hidden her affinity for violence and mayhem in the guise of a plum-colored dress and gray leggings. Come to think of it, Deacon’s sure he’s never seen her without a weapon or three holstered on her hip, let alone a dress. It looks good. She looks...good.

There’s a moment, brief like a flash of lightning, where her mouth drops open and her eyes light up with surprise. And then, a wide smile breaks out on her cheeks.

“Hey Mac,” She calls over her shoulder.

“Yeah?” Deacon hears the familiar voice answer her from further inside.

“You owe me twenty caps!”

“What? _No wa_ \-- hey, man!”

MacCready joins her in the doorway. Nat’s not the only one who’s changed up their look. Robert’s faded t-shirt clings to the lean body he typically hides beneath that god awful duster. The hat’s missing, too. But that cocky smirk hasn’t changed one bit. 

Deacon clicks his tongue. “You two aren’t winning any awards for your hospitality, leaving a guy to freeze out in the cold like this.”

“Come in, then!” Nat chuckles, still grinning. 

When Deacon passes through the door frame, he catches sight of the shotgun lurking in Nat’s shadow, clenched just behind her back. She leans the gun back in the corner as the door slides closed. Deacon feels a twinge of relief. Old habits die hard. Maybe they haven’t changed _that_ much. 

MacCready offers a sheepish smile. “It’s, uh...been a minute.”

“We missed you,” Nat translates. 

“Aw.” Deacon nudges MacCready’s shoulder. “More than you’re gonna miss that twenty caps? I don’t know if I should be offended or flattered.”

“You know, that’s what we were thinking when you were pacing around out there.” Nat sighs emphatically. “I guess we’re just not that scary anymore. We’re losing our touch, Mac.”

Mac chuckles. “I thought for sure you’d split without stopping by.”

Huh. Maybe Deacon’s the one losing his touch. Next time, he’ll have to take care to be more discreet with his crisis of indecision.

“Who’s your friend there?” Nat nods to the bottle of wine.

Deacon passes it to her. “A little housewarming present to celebrate your slow decay into domestic nothingness.”

Mac scoffs. “Tell that to the camp of raiders we took out last week. Or those dumbas-- _ugh_ \-- idiot Gunners trying to slink back to Mass Pike the week before.”

“Gunners?” Deacon’s smile falters.

“Won’t happen again,” Nat shrugs. “Took out a few more chunks of the highway, just to be safe.”

Deacon sniffs a laugh. “Right. Makes sense.”

“Also,” Mac adds dryly, “we killed a _fuh-_ \- fricken ton of them.”

“Yet somehow there _always_ seems to be more,” Nat rolls her eyes. “They’re like rats.”

Deacon feels a stroke of pride at MacCready’s defiance and the smugness in Nat’s smirk. So they hadn’t hung it all up. Good. Maybe it would help Deacon worry about them less to know they were still firing the first shots.

“This looks nice,” Nat says as she surveys his offering. She means it, if her typical tells are any indicator. Unless she’s gotten new ones since he’s last seen her. “I’ll go grab us some glasses.” She disappears around the corner, bottle in tow.

“Let me show you around,” MacCready clasps Deacon’s shoulder, steering him down the hall. There’s a strange comfort to the gesture, being touched by someone who knows him. As well as anyone could, anyway. As much as he’s allowed them to. With the Railroad thinning out, Deacon’s found himself wondering if anyone ever _would_. But there’s a firmness to the press of Robert’s thumb brushing his collarbone. A reminder that he’s still whoever he’s been pretending to be. 

They were friends by circumstance, the three of them. Begrudgingly so, in MacCready’s case. In that span of time that lasted forever and five seconds all at once, between the moment Nat vanished from the relay, and the moment she reappeared, MacCready needed all the friends he could get. For all their evil schemes and crimes against humanity, the Institute sure bred interesting bedfellows.

“Wow,” Deacon breathes as they step into the living room. “Nat really _is_ a saint.”

The first thing Deacon sees is the tiger-print rug sprawled across the floor, which stirs several immediate, pressing questions. _Why_ and _how_ are the first that spring to mind, but _where_ and _who did you steal this from_ come as close seconds. One question he already has the answer to is _who_.

“Come on,” Mac mutters defensively. “It looks cool!”

“Of course _you_ would think so,” Deacon shakes his head.

“Whatever, old man.”

“Old man?”

“Yeah,” Mac shrugs. “You look beat, dude.”

Sheesh. That one actually stung just a _little_ bit. Deacon’s hand twitches slightly. He resists the urge to stroke down his face to check for the wrinkles he already knows have settled in from sleepless nights and midnight mad dashes. Lately, it’s been more of the former than the latter. Not that he misses the rude awakenings of _run for your life and try not to trip over your dead friends on the way out_.

“Well, Nat’s ancient,” Mac adds with a wicked smirk, “so you got her beat.”

From the other room, he hears her snark back. “Good thing I don’t concern myself with the opinions of _actual children_.”

Deacon feels an ease relax into his stature at the sound of their familiar banter. It lacks the teeth he knows well enough that they could _both_ bear if they wanted to. The words are sharp, but spoken soft as petals. 

Soaking in the rest of the room, it’s clear their new abode isn’t quite finished. It smells like wood and sawdust and cigarettes. Out back, there’s a dirt dragged into rows, ready for a garden. The walls are mostly plain, and still need patching here and there. As they pass from the living room, with it’s sofa and recliner poised in front of the fireplace, Deacon feels a draft billowing in from the hall. 

“Our room’s there.” Mac nods to the door on the right. “Nat’s got plans for this _master bath_ , whatever the hell that means. Guest room will be over there, next to Duncan’s, but it’s not finished yet.” MacCready rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry, but the couch is the best we got. Might’ve been different if we knew you were coming.”

Deacon feels the press of shame course through his shoulders. There’s a sharpness in MacCready’s eyes as their conversation fades, an edge keen enough that Deacon averts his gaze to the paneled walls. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking on his part that he takes the loaded pause to mean _why didn’t you show yourself sooner._ Apparently, twenty caps was the price of Natasha’s faith in him.

Deacon breaches the stilted silence. “When’s the little guy heading this way?”

MacCready’s expression grows gentle. The edge still catches in his voice, but this time, Mac points the sharp side towards himself. “Next spring. Still need time to finish up the house, and travel’s no good in winter.” 

Deacon searches for something to say, some reassuring platitude to breach the stagnant breath they seem to be holding between them. But before he has a chance, Mac wets his lips and does it for him.

“What’ve you been up to? Since...you know.”

“Just the same old tricks, I’m afraid.”

“Smells like a load of crap to me.”

Was he really _that_ out of practice? He’s shoved worse lies down tighter throats before. It’s not like he’s been sitting on his ass, these last six months. He’s been running the old routes, shepherding orphaned synths into uncertain, unknowable futures, snuffing out Institute cells that stray too close to pre-war tech, and sleeping with one eye open. Barely sleeping at all. Same old, same old...just not as often. With longer spaces in between that stretched out, parched and empty like a desert. Fewer dead drops, but fewer dead bodies. 

“Busy,” Deacon shrugs. “Been _really_ busy.”

“With what?” Mac raises a skeptic brow.

“Gee, I don’t know, the usual.”

“Thought we blew up the ‘usual’.”

“Sure, except...no, not really. There’s still plenty of displaced synths that need a way to start over. Still Institute and Brotherhood--”

“We save the whole damn world, and look at you, stressing yourself out like it’s ending or something.”

“Mac, you do know there’s stuff outside of the Commonwealth and Capital Wasteland, right?”

“ _Ha ha_. You know what I mean.”

“Not sure I do.”

“You can relax, Deacon. You deserve it.” 

When has the world _ever_ been about what people deserve? Still, the snarky retort dries up on his tongue. According to Mac’s tells, he’s being sincere, too. Imagine that. Two truths in this half-finished house and...one lie. 

God, does he feel like an imposter, coming here. They’re sauntering back towards the living room, now, and Deacon catches the knick-knacks lined up on the mantle. A Grognak figurine - that had to be Mac’s. Next to it...he hopes that’s not a _live_ grenade. Yeah, come to think of it, it might take until next spring to make sure this place is child-proofed.

Beside these trademark signatures, there’s a woman’s picture, a pre-war polaroid that has a face he doesn’t recognize. And, pinned next to it, a crayon drawing of...he’s not really sure what. It’s colorful.

Sides of them he hasn’t seen. Pieces he wishes he could learn. Things that he won’t know, dropping in for just one night.

MacCready nudges his shoulder. Even with his gruffness, there’s a reassuring warmth to his smile. “It’s good to see you, Deacon.”

A sound splits the night, ripping the smile off MacCready’s face in one clean tear. Like the buzz of a bloodbug, except it’s mechanical, persistent. Their eyes lock for a beat as the chainsaw cleaves through the quiet. Glass shatters in the kitchen. 

Mac’s a half-step ahead as they rush to the other room. By the time they reach it, Natasha’s shaking like an earthquake. Wine’s leaking around her feet in a puddle. Shards of broken glass glitter among the spill.

“I’m okay,” she sputters. But the noise pitches higher, and a tremor ripples down her spine. ‘Okay’ meant white-knuckling the countertop. Deacon hears her shallow breath pull in and out of her teeth.

MacCready’s got his arms around her a second later. “Wanna try that again?”

“I’m...not great.”

Mac tugs her head to his chest, glaring murder over her shoulder at the doorway. His hands clutch her closer, but the stern set of his jaw speaks to his other intentions. 

The sound drones on. Deacon grimaces. “Some settler working late building the old homestead?”

“They should know better,” Mac snaps. “We’ve got designated times for that crap.”

Times where Natasha could be elsewhere, he imagined. Or at least, not caught off guard. He never asked where it came from, this specific, visceral fear. He didn’t have to. If Deacon’s ever been good at anything, it’s hazarding educated guesses.

Deacon watches the dilemma play out on MacCready’s face as his eyes flit from Nat, still trembling, to the source of the sound beyond the door. 

“We’ve gotta get them to shut that off,” Deacon says.

“Yeah,” MacCready growls, “and I’m gonna go show ‘em right where they can shove it.” He massages circles into Nat’s shoulders. “You good here with Deacon?”

“Yeah,” she nods, still breathless. “Please don’t kill anybody.”

MacCready doesn’t answer, but he leaves a kiss on her forehead as he goes. When he passes Deacon, his expression changes. He looks worn. Haggard, even. 

“I’ve got her back,” Deacon murmurs. “We’ll be good here.”

MacCready nods curtly, an ounce of relief slipping over his face. He’s gone a moment later, along with the shotgun by the door. The chainsaw revs up again. Nat flinches.

Deacon steps gingerly through the sticky mess seeping over the floor, arms half-raised as he nears Nat. “All right, it’s you and me, partner. _Please_ don’t punch me?”

The barest of smiles curves up the corner of her lips. “That was _one_ time.”

“What would you call that other one, then?”

“I didn’t technically _punch_ you that other time.”

“Always the technicalities with you.”

“I mean, I was a lawyer. Exploiting technicality used to pay the bills.”

Nat’s breath catches. Deacon follows her eyeline to the red stain leaking lazily across the floor. Tentatively, Deacon squeezes the side of her arm. Her gaze snaps back to him, but it’s foggy. She’s still seeing something else.

“Hey, what’s that old saying? Don’t cry over spilt...wine?”

She doesn’t answer, just shivers. Deacon takes a step closer, rubbing his thumb along her shoulder.

“You know,” he tries again, “if you didn’t like it, you could’ve just told me.”

“I didn’t even get to try it yet,” she mumbles.

“Well step one, let’s fix that.” He reaches over to fill an intact glass, and offers it to her.

“I...I’ll just drop it again,” Nat winces, looking down at her hands. She’s right, of course. Even as the rest of her has stilled, the quakes still run through her fingertips.

“Here.” Before he can really think, he’s lifting the glass to her lips. There’s a stroke of surprise in her dark eyes as they flutter to his, and then she’s tilting her head to drink it down. For a moment, he’s fixated on the swallow that moves down the bare column of her throat, and the little fleck of red that’s left on her mouth when he takes the glass away. 

The noise of the chainsaw finally cuts out. There’s no gunshots in its stead, so Deacon can only assume Mac took Nat’s request to heart. They’re standing close enough, Deacon can feel Natasha’s chest deflate with the rush of her exhale. Her breaths are coming hard and heavy now as she finds her way back to normal.

Deacon prods her back to present. “Tell me what it tastes like.”

Shit. He’s still talking low, trying to soothe her out of whatever memory is rearing its ugly head. But it sounds...it probably shouldn’t sound like _that_. Before he can fight the color rising in his cheeks, Nat’s cracking a wide, glowing grin. 

“Well,” she drawls, “it’s got hints of mahogany, and essence of bourgeoisie, and maybe just a dash of hedonism.” She breaks off into snickers that flutter and settle into a sense of relief in his chest. 

Deacon smirks back at her. “Glad to know this peasant could please your refined palette.”

“I..uh…” Nat staggers on her feet. She braces herself against the counter. 

“Gosh, I forgot how bad of a lightweight you could be.”

“Very funny. I’m just a little...I get dizzy, after. That’s all.”

Deacon offers her his arm. “Let’s get you to the couch.”

\---

By the time MacCready rejoins them, the rest of the bottle is spent. Deacon goes to hunt down a new one while Robert checks on Nat. She’s nestled into the couch with her feet kicked up. Deacon hears their soft murmurs, but can’t make out the words. 

It’s uncomfortable to see her this way. She has her smug smile back, now, but beneath it, there’s a shadow hanging like a shroud on her shoulders. She seems...frail. It’s left him feeling bruised.

Deacon finds their stash of alcohol, and calls to them from the other room. “You guys want to stick with red, or--”

MacCready appears from around the corner. Deacon’s eyes drop down his bare chest as Mac balls up his t-shirt and chucks it towards the washroom behind them. For a second, their eyes meet, and Deacon _knows_ he’s been caught. MacCready saunters passed him with a shit-eating grin and a self-satisfied swagger. He rifles for a fresh shirt from the closet in the other room. 

For a brief moment, as he’s tugging it down over his head, the panes of his chest are drawn taut as Deacon’s attention.

“Nat says no blood on the couch,” Mac shrugs in explanation. “Had to teach some idiots a lesson.”

Mac runs hands through his hair to tame it. Deacon’s focus snaps, like a bowstring, back to what’s in front of him. He jolts to a sudden stand and ducks back towards the living room. 

Deacon drops onto the couch beside Nat, who’s cradling her glass fondly. MacCready takes the recliner across from them, leaning back with a tired sigh. 

“He clocked the neighbor in the face,” Nat murmurs, eyes drooping shut as she sips.

“They’re lucky I didn’t do worse,” MacCready says stiffly. “Lucky we let them live here at all.”

“We’ve been through this, Mac,” Nat reminds him gently. “We’d be risking too much, trying to play house outside of a settlement.”

“Doesn’t mean these drifters can’t pay respect where it’s due. They know who we are.”

“I’m not the General anymore.”

“Doesn’t change what you did, Nat. They could stand to be a little more grateful.”

It’s a tired argument, Deacon can tell. The volleys are little more than light pushes passing in between wide yawns. Deacon throws his hat into the ring.

“You could secede,” he interjects. “Add a few more rooms onto this place and you could call it a palace. Put up your own banner. Invite your subjects to pay tribute to your royal majesties. Smite your foes.”

“Careful,” Mac warns with a playful tilt in his voice. “One day we just might. You’ll see.”

“I hope you credit me as your secret overlord, if that’s the case. It was my idea, after all.”

They carry on, in this way, for a while, tip-toeing around taboo topics like how often Nat has her episodes, how there’s still blood on Mac’s knuckles, or the truth about what Deacon has or hasn’t been up to since they’ve last seen him. When they’ve wound down to the bottom of the bottle, something tightens in Deacon’s chest. A sudden fear. When the night is over, what happens next? It looms over him, an empty void.

“Hey, don’t look so glum,” Mac laughs, snatching Deacon’s empty glass. “There’s more where that came from.” Suddenly, his eyes grow wide. “Holy fuh -- shit. _Shoot_ . Look. _Look at that!_ ”

Deacon half-turns to follow Mac’s pointing finger.

“No don’t,” MacCready hisses in a whisper. “Don’t you fricken move!”

“You’re sending a lot of mixed signals here.”

Suddenly, the weight on his shoulder shifts. Deacon freezes as Natasha resettles. Across from him, Mac goes rigid, too. They wait on bated breath while she curls around Deacon’s arm, nestling in like he’s a living, breathing pillow. When the soft hum of her snore starts up again, the boys let out a joint sigh of relief.

Deacon dares a glance down at his dozing appendage. She’s...serene. It’s a pre-war word from pre-war books about ponds, and mornings, and lazy afternoons. It doesn’t belong in a wasteland full of dust, decay, and radiation. But neither does Natasha. 

How did this even happen? 

He, of all people, should have noticed. Blame it on the second bottle of wine, sitting empty on the coffee table next to its twin. Or the cushy sofa cradling his aching bones that have grown so accustomed to concrete and thin, molding mattresses. Or the haze of laughter and conversation that fogged over his better judgment. MacCready’s too-blue eyes, or Nat’s soft hair that smells faintly like... _vanilla?_ How does she even do that?

Fuck. Her _hair_. It’s splayed over the back cushion of the couch, but one traitorous wave is tickling at his neck. A nervous swallow moves down Deacon’s throat. Sure, she looked calm and cute now. But he knew all too well how quickly that could change.

_If you ever touch my hair again, I will murder you in your sleep_ , were her exact words, if Deacon remembered correctly. And when his life was on the line, he _always_ remembered correctly. It was months ago now. _Maybe_ she didn’t mean it. Knowing this one, it wasn’t a gamble he was keen on making.

He glances back to MacCready, who’s watching _him_ watch Nat. For a moment, Deacon steels himself for the fire and brimstone, but it’s not jealousy etched in the tired lines of MacCready’s face. He looks...grateful. Kind, even. Like some of her tranquility has rubbed off on him. It’s not a look he’s often seen the surly ex-gunner wear, but it’s one that might suit him well if he could just cast off the bags hanging beneath his eyes. 

“What’s the exit strategy here?” Deacon whispers.

“Oh no, you’re stayin’ right there.”

“What--”

“She needs this. She...she hasn’t slept like this since before. _Please_.”

The protest dies on his tongue. Well... _shit_. Before the Institute. Before the things that happened to her in the place that was now just another crater buried beneath the Charles River. Before they parted ways, and Nat left Deacon with the words that brought him here, to the home she shared with MacCready.

_So what now, big fish?_ He’d asked her.

_I’m gonna go home,_ she’d said. _You should try it sometime._

And for a moment, it stung sharp as a blade. But then she rested a hand on his shoulder, smiled in a way that was kind and not cutting. _The door’s always open, Deacon._

“So, let me get this straight,” Deacon deadpans. “You’re begging me to sleep with your girlfriend?”

_There’s_ the eye roll. And the puffing of the chest. “Look, you better be respectful about it, all right?”

“I would never _not_ be.”

“I know,” Robert’s face softens. “She trusts you. _I_ trust you.” He pauses for a moment. Deacon sees his tongue dart out to wet his lips. “You wouldn’t be touching her if I didn’t.”

And then that _look_ is back on him like a spotlight. Deacon finds himself sinking against the couch, as if he could blend right into the fabric. His shades can’t save him this time; they’re over on the counter next to the corkscrew. 

He gets it, he thinks. They’re in love with each other. A kind of crazy, end-of-the-world, burn down bridges sort of in love with each other. He’s seen it in action. Seen them both leap in front of bullets just to shield their partner. So maybe something so simple as leaving his lover curled up with a friend so she can grab a wink of sleep wasn’t such a sacrifice for Mac. They’d shed greater skin. Bled deeper wounds, just to keep the other breathing. Waged a whole fucking war, just to reach this house on the hill. 

Deacon would know. He was along with them for that ride through hell and back. He had his own lingering reminders of the Institute. 

So that must be why MacCready is _gazing_ at him with the intensity of the sun, with eyes that are glowing, light, and searing right through him. It’s too bright, too much. And it doesn’t notch with the sinking, twisting, _guilty_ feeling in Deacon’s gut when Natasha sighs and snuggles closer into his side. Deacon fumbles for a reprieve. Something to shine it back in his face.

“Anyway,” Deacon murmurs, “if I was going to seduce one of you, I’ve got _way_ better moves I could pull.”

“That right?”

He lets his voice grow husky. “Yeah, Bobby. That’s right.”

Mac’s pink to the tips of his ears in seconds. Oh, it’s too perfect. Nat must have an absolute field day with that one. 

Robert’s eyes dart over to her, and Deacon clicks his tongue. “Nah, she didn’t give you away. You did that all on your own.”

“Hm.”

MacCready speechless? That might be a first. For a moment, Robert’s mouth parts just slightly, and he drops his gaze down to the smug grin spreading on Deacon’s lips. When the flush on MacCready’s cheeks fades, the warm curve of his familiar smirk creeps in again. Deacon doesn't give him a chance at the comeback he sees brewing.

“Now that we’ve established my uncontested mastery in seduction, you should know you two are _severely_ lacking in that arena. So until you rectify that, I’m gonna take this _very sexy_ bod of mine and grab my own shut-eye.”

“Come on, man.” MacCready’s smile disintegrates, and in its stead, a weary desperation remains. There’s a ragged edge to his voice that Deacon _feels_ more than hears. It’s so crisp and clear, he could pull apart every little straining fiber of grief and loss that’s lingering beneath the facade of cozy, homebound Mac and Nat. It’s subtle enough, woven through the soft murmurs and gentle touches that they save for each other. They shelter beneath this semblance of domestic bliss despite barely being knit together themselves. 

But there’s no mistaking it in the dark hollows like bruises under Nat’s eyes. Or in the simple, tender awe softening the worry lines on MacCready’s face when he catches her, at last, asleep and peaceful. Like he’s never seen something so perfect in his life.

For his part, Robert looks like he’d aged ten years since Deacon first saw him with that surly scowl twisting up his face down in the crypt beneath Old North Church. New wrinkles on his forehead, haunting his skin like scars. At this rate, there’d be salt and pepper in that head of hair in a manner of months.

But Robert and Natasha have each other. They made it out. Not everyone could say that. And if anyone was made of stronger stuff, it was these two. They had thick enough skin to weather a wave of insomnia. A _six-month_ wave of insomnia. And they’d be fine enough on their own without him. 

"Bobby, I don't think-- _ow!_ "

Suddenly, a hand flails in his face. Before Deacon can duck away, Nat’s smushing his cheek like she’s kneading a lump out of dough. He squirms from her reach, and she goes sliding from his side. He catches the sharp intake of breath from MacCready when her head slumps to Deacon’s lap. Grumbling to herself, and still oblivious to the waking world, she makes peace with their new arrangement by sliding a hand beneath his leg and clenching the fabric of his jeans between her fingers. _Oh boy._

Deacon swallows. He doesn’t look at MacCready. Just slides, ever so slowly, towards the edge of the couch. He freezes as her grip tightens. She utters a moody mumble, and slumbers on. But it’s what’s happening on his _other leg_ that’s making him nervous now. Robert’s hand rests lightly on Deacon’s knee.

“Please,” Mac pleads. “Look, I’ve been...we all saw shit back there…” Sheepishly, he trails off, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I love her to death, I just...I could be better at it, maybe, if I had...one night.”

Deacon sighs. “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”

“You wouldn’t even be here if you didn’t need this, too.”

He fumbles to keep his expression neutral as those ocean eyes pierce right through him. Mac was never one to mince words. Deacon was never one to give himself away so easy. But there it was, laid bare, out in the open: why are you here, Deacon?

_I'm gonna go home. You should try it sometime. The door's always open._

This is _their_ home. Nat’s leather jacket hangs by the door, Mac’s hat and scarf are draped alongside it. Their comic collection dominates a nearby wall, locked behind salvaged glass cabinets. Their chipped wine glasses rest on the table, stained red from the evening. This is their living room, bathed in fading candlelight. And here he comes, slinking in from the cold like a specter. Casting long shadows as if he could find a place to fit here, in _their_ lives. 

The dim glow flickers and folds into shadows over Nat’s face. There’s a weight in his chest that gives way, abrupt like an avalanche, but it’s a feather-light landing. God, does she look...something. Something halfway to happy. Something miles away from suffering. Something hopeful. 

_You should try it sometime._

She makes it sound so easy. Like slipping on a jacket, or a glove, or new name and face. But it’s not easy, this stillness. It’s unnatural, unnerving. Even now, he feels his feet shuffling, looking for a chance to run, while something in the back of his mind is searching, frantically, for a reason not to. 

Natasha’s head tilts. A stray tangle of hair falls over her face. Carefully, _carefully,_ as if he’s tiptoeing past a land mine, Deacon pulls it from her cheek and tucks it back into place by her ear. She hums quietly in her sleep. A warmth spreads in his chest. 

“All right, Bobby,” Deacon relents. “I’ll play snuggle bug for a night.”

MacCready heaves a sigh of relief. “Thanks man. I’ll grab you a pillow.”

In the same moment MacCready’s hand slides from Deacon’s knee, Natasha grips his other leg harder. Deacon jerks slightly before schooling his body into behaving.

“ _U tebya yest' makarony?_ ” The sugar-sweet question comes from the lips of the sleeping woman sprawled over him. Her eyes flutter beneath her lids, but the soft hum of her snore punctuates the end of her inquiry. 

Deacon blinks to MacCready, beaming. “Oh _no way_.”

MacCready flashes him a fond grin, but there’s a conspiratorial glint in his eye. “She’ll...talk back to you if you say stuff. But _don’t._ Just...let her sleep, all right?”

“Any clue what she’s saying?”

“Hell if I know. If you ever find a Russian dictionary, I'd love to find out. She never remembers when she wakes up.”

“ _Sday ili u nas budut problemy!_ ” Her second proclamation is inching towards disgruntled. Deacon and Mac exchange glances. Quiet laughter sputters out of them. 

New mission. Tomorrow. A little trip to Boston Public Library. Deacon has an inkling there has to be an almanac tucked in there somewhere that survived the bombs. Something to help good upstanding citizens spy on their commie neighbors. Or, you know, translate the half-dead language pouring out of the woman asleep on your lap.

MacCready rises and disappears to hunt down blankets. Natasha murmurs more Russian nothings into his leg. There’s a small twist in his gut at her change in tone - sad and petulant this time. With Mac out of sight and out of earshot, the temptation is too great.

“I know,” Deacon mumbles back to her. “ _People_ these days. Can’t get any good help around here.”

When her answer echoes back just as mournful, he risks a soft pat to her head.

“He’ll be right down the hall,” Deacon promises. "And...I'll be here, too."

Her grip loosens, and her face grows calm again like the smooth surface of a stilled pond. She might’ve said this whole starting over business was easy, but people like Natasha and Deacon were always _saying_ things. People like _them_ didn’t get sleep like this all that often. Well, if she could take a stab at it, then maybe so could he. For one night. 

MacCready reappears bearing nighttime comforts. Deacon takes the pillow he offers, tucking it behind his head. He watches Mac drape the blanket over Nat, taking care to catch her feet beneath the covers so they won’t catch cold. He spares a quick glance to Deacon before he bends to press a slow, reverent kiss to her forehead. 

Deacon averts his eyes. There’s a heat coloring his collar. Suddenly, he feels thin and flimsy, like he’s a ghost again, and he’s intruding on something sacred.

A firm hand grips his shoulder. Deacon looks up again to find MacCready hovering, bare breaths away. He’s blinking at him with wide, warm eyes and parted lips that are struggling to find the words he’s looking for. 

“One for me, too?” Deacon quirks a brow for effect.

With a quiet chuckle, Mac retreats, leaving him with nothing but a pat on the arm. He pads towards the hallway, lingering at the edge of the room. As he half-turns to peer back over at him, Deacon’s struck by the memory of another night. Out on that rooftop in Lexington, when he and Natasha talked about lessons they learned the hard way. When she left him with his ghosts, she stopped and looked back at him like MacCready's doing just now, like he wasn’t just a lurking phantom, but a kindred spirit, and said--

“ _Thank you,_ Deacon.”

Deacon offers MacCready a small smile as the other man stifles a wide yawn. “She’ll get there, you know.”

“I know,” Mac smiles back sleepily. “We all will.”

\---

Warm voices filter into his mind, cloying with the earthy scent of coffee. The soft morning conversation carries from the kitchen. 

“...just didn’t have the heart to wake him,” Mac’s saying. “Guy looks dead on his feet.”

“Can you blame him?”

“Nah. It’s...it’s good he’s here.”

Nat snickers. “Does that mean you finally _like_ him?”

“I’ll _tolerate_ him.”

“Aw, you two were getting along well enough last night.”

“Yeah, well, he’s… you know--”

“Ridiculously charming?” Deacon calls over his shoulder, letting his eyes flutter open. “Scary good looking? Smoother than a--”

“Well hey, sleeping beauty,” Nat cuts him off, plunking into the recliner across from him. She’s twirling a curl around her finger. There’s a freshness in her face, he notices, as she eyes him mischievously. No more hunched, tight shoulders. Her movements have the flowing ease of water. 

“Hey yourself. You know when you talk about me, my ears start ringing, right?”

“Did you touch it?” Her eyes are narrowed, fingers turning to claws as they pull through her hair. Deacon fixes his face carefully. 

“Oh, not even a little. I value my life and limb, thank you.”

“Good, then we can still be friends.” She snatches a copy of Grognak from the table between them, paging through it lazily as the steam from her coffee rises and curls in the slant of light from the window. MacCready appears a minute later, scooching her by the waist to steal her chair and tug her into his lap. 

Maybe it’s the way the light’s drifting in. It must be. But Robert’s eyes are clear as a summer day, bright and brilliant and impossibly blue. It turns out a good night’s sleep suited them well. Deacon breathes in deeply, a feeling of ease settling into his shoulders. For once, his back isn’t screaming at him. Maybe a good night’s rest suited him, too. He could get used to that part. Maybe.

Sunlight dapples on Nat’s skin as the edge of her t-shirt droops off her arm. It casts a glow Deacon can feel spreading in his chest when Mac rests his head against Nat’s hair. They’re kind of beautiful, the two of them. 

Nat brushes a quick kiss to Mac’s cheek. “You could’ve just asked me to move.”

He shrugs, smirking wickedly. “My version was more fun.”

“You mean your version let you grab my ass.”

“Same thing. Anyway, what do you dorks want to do today?”

Deacon rubs his hands together as he leans forward, a smile tugging on his lips. “How would you two feel about a little field trip to Boston Public Library?”

Nat tilts her head. “The library?”

“Yeah,” Deacon smirks, winking at MacCready. “I’ve got this sudden fascination with linguistics.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I am slowly but surely chipping away at a longfic for MacCready and Natasha that follows the main plot. I am also planning future one-shots for our power throuple as well. These stories are intended as "parts sold separately, but can be compatible together". In other words, I'll aim to make sure these fics are independent enough that they can enhance each other, but also be enjoyed on their own in case that is a preference.
> 
> That being said, I will continue to make shameless references. If something is necessary to understand the story, I'll be blunter than I may have been this time around. For answers to burning questions such as "Why is Nat triggered by chainsaws?" and "WTF did Deacon do to her hair?!", keep an eye out for the longfic to start being posted sometime this fall.
> 
> If anyone is curious, Nat was getting down to business in her sleep. Loosely, the translation is: Where is the pasta?! Give it to me, or we will have a problem.
> 
> This was meant to be the lightest brushes of future OT3 shenanigans. I hope you enjoyed. Please feel free to leave me your thoughts, or connect with me on Tumblr at @adventuresofmeghatron.


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